


The Vagaries of Commercial Air Travel

by manic_intent



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dom/sub, I have no excuses for this fic, M/M, Mile High Club, That AU where Bilbo is an air steward, and Thorin is a CEO, d/s verse, dom!bilbo, sub!Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:12:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin squeezed his eyes closed and wished that he was dead. His Gods-damned sister had ‘borrowed’ the private jet to hop across to the Maldives with her sons on a whim, and had ‘forgotten’ to tell him about it. Again. </p><p>Save that <i>this</i> time, Thorin <i>had</i> actually had an urgent business meeting to attend, over in bloody New York, and flying commercial was a personal trial on many levels. Firstly. Bloody <i>Heathrow</i>. Secondly. The teeming <i>masses</i>. Not even Singapore’s Changi Airport, which had a hotel lobby-like First Class check-in facility, had quite worked out how to minimise contact with the hordes of humanity, and Heathrow certainly fucking hadn’t. Thirdly. The godsdamned <i>holiday</i> season and its unashamedly commercial thrust of lurid ‘good’ cheer, obnoxious jingles and all. </p><p>He was going to <i>murder</i> Dís whenever he next saw her.</p><p>[added chapter 2, because popular demand]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Screaming little demonspawn on the night flight from SG to Melbourne made me do it.
> 
> Note: Probably many errors, given that I will probably never have the spare cash to fly first class. Some airline carriers currently have first class ‘seats’ that are actually little rooms: I think on Etihad they’re called the Apartments, and for SQ they’re the Suites. 
> 
> Firsts: Doms. Seconds: Nulls/betas. Thirds: Subs.

I.

Thorin squeezed his eyes closed and wished that he was dead. His Gods-damned sister had ‘borrowed’ the private jet to hop across to the Maldives with her sons on a whim, and had ‘forgotten’ to tell him about it. Again.

Save that _this_ time, Thorin _had_ actually had an urgent business meeting to attend, over in bloody New York, and flying commercial was a personal trial on many levels. Firstly. Bloody _Heathrow_. Secondly. The teeming _masses_. Not even Singapore’s Changi Airport, which had a hotel lobby-like First Class check-in facility, had quite worked out how to minimise contact with the hordes of humanity, and Heathrow certainly fucking hadn’t. Thirdly. The godsdamned _holiday_ season and its unashamedly commercial thrust of lurid ‘good’ cheer, obnoxious jingles and all. 

He was going to _murder_ Dís whenever he next saw her.

Considering that Thorin was paying the equivalent of the cost of a small car to fly in one of the Suites on Shire Air, it was incredibly… _frustrating_ how he could still hear the squalling crescendo shrieks of some brat hellspawns in Business Class. Fuck the rising middle class, or whatever circumstances had conspired to allow parents with little squealing goblins to fly Business Class with impunity. 

Take off was a trial that Thorin ground his teeth through, as the ascent of the plane seemed to excite the creatures, but even when they were in the air, and he could finally shut the fucking door, he could _still_ hear the little monsters. Good _lord_. Couldn’t the airline designers have _made_ soundproof compartments? Rubbing his fingers over his temples for a moment in a futile attempt to soothe his headache, Thorin finally gave up, exhaling as he pressed the button for attendance. 

There was a moment’s pause, then there was a light knock on the door. “Come in,” Thorin said brusquely, and the door slid open, just enough to show the slight figure of a… remarkably _cute_ air steward, neat and trim in the dark green and white blazer and pressed shirt uniform of a Shire Air steward, his mouse-brown hair a mop of unruly curls over brilliantly large eyes that held only a strange sort of calm amusement. 

Thorin also couldn’t tell, on a first glance, what aspect the steward was: he exuded calm, like a Second, but there was a steely self-confidence to his poise that felt like a First’s prerogative. Frustrated and tired and nursing the start of what was likely to be another resounding headache, Thorin tried to make it out for a moment more before giving up.

“Mister Durin?” the air steward asked mildly. “May I help you?”

Thorin had almost forgotten the reason behind pressing the attendant button in the first place, until the air was split again with the ascending, operatic wail of yet another spawn of Satan. He closed his eyes in irritation, and when he reopened them, the air steward had arched an eyebrow, and the amusement seemed more pronounced. 

“If it’s about our very young guests in Business Class,” the air steward drawled, “I regret to advise that I may offer no assistance other than perhaps a selection of hard liquor and a set of headphones.”

Thorin scowled. “Can’t you talk to the bloody parents?” he snapped.

“Unfortunate as-“ The steward’s words were briefly drowned out by another wail, and the steward paused for a moment before adding, “Unfortunately, it is against airline policy to advise grown adults on parenting techniques, tempting as it may be. If I may offer you the wine list-“ 

“Fuck liquor,” Thorin growled. “Why can’t you move those little monsters further down the plane?”

The steward’s smile grew a little fixed, and to Thorin’s growing irritation, he stepped into the suite, closing the door neatly behind him. Flying apartments in the air his arse - the Suites were smaller than the bathrooms of his Mayfair house, and with the steward crowded into the shoebox of a room, it felt even _more_ cramped. 

“My dear sir-“ 

“Don’t take that tone with me!”

“ _Unfortunately_ ,” the air steward continued firmly, “Those ‘little monsters’, as you so eloquently put, are part and parcel of commercial air travel.”

Another faint squeal, like the despairing cry of some goat getting tortured, drifted through the walls, as if to punctuate the steward’s point, and Thorin grit his teeth, another retort on the tip of his tongue: only to freeze up as the steward reached over and grasped his wrist. 

“Would you please be _calm_ ,” the steward said, his tone not changing a whit but _now_ Thorin felt it, the pressure and the authority behind the steward’s voice, ironclad, inexorable, like an _unravelling_ , a release so… _refreshing_ that it was utterly sensual: Gods, it had been so _long_ since he had met a First with a presence that was absolute enough to overwhelm him.

Thorin’s breath left him in a ragged rush, a choked and strangled sound, and the steward let go of him as though scalded, his eyes widening. “Oh, I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean to press that hard… I thought you were another First… um, not a Thir... I mean, I’ll help you get cleaned up,” he added awkwardly, opening the tiny ensuite bathroom and pulling out a set of handtowels.

Belatedly, Thorin realized that he had… in his _trousers_ … and his cheeks grew hot even as he tried to pull up from the sense of _balance_ that he felt, of peace, and he grabbed the steward’s wrist as the steward came closer. “What’s your name?” Thorin asked roughly. 

“Um.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not about to make a complaint.”

“Well,” the steward said wryly, “You actually could if you wished. I’m Bilbo. And I _am_ very sorry about this, I really did think-“

“Yes, yes,” Thorin said, with a touch of impatience: his brusque nature didn’t quite lend itself to his aspect, which was one reason why he wasn’t yet mated. He had never found a First quite strong enough to truly… affect him. 

Until now.

And perhaps it was mutual. When Thorin dropped his stare, he could see a crease growing in Bilbo’s pressed trousers, and he had to concentrate not to lick his lips. Bilbo had gone quiet, attentively so, his gorgeous eyes tracking over Thorin’s face to the wet patch in his ruined trousers, and eventually, Thorin said quietly, “Perhaps you should clean up the mess you made.”

“That might compound the problem,” Bilbo breathed, though Thorin could tell that he was tempted, from how his shoulders tensed up and his gaze dropped back to Thorin’s crotch. “Are you, ah. Under the influence?”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “You’re not _that_ strong.” 

“About that,” Bilbo said, then he smirked faintly, and, Gods-bless, finally went down on his knees before the unwieldily plush flight seat, his lovely eyes darkening with lust. “Maybe if you behave, Mister Durin, I’ll see to proving that wrong. I _could_ put you under, I think: what a pretty sight that would be.”

Sarcasm died unspoken as Bilbo unbuttoned his breeches, deftly, then tugged down soiled trousers and boxers just enough to wipe down what he could off the fabric. “Mm,” Bilbo murmured. “Very nice.”

It _had_ been a while. Even this scant praise made Thorin’s next breath stutter in his throat, though he tried to hide it by saying sharply, “Get _on_ with it.”

“We do supply pyjamas,” Bilbo noted mildly, as though Thorin hadn’t spoken, as though Bilbo was doing nothing more untoward than serving tea, “If you would like to change. Sir.” 

Thorin shivered. Hearing a First drawl the word _sir_ like that felt so wrong, somehow, deliciously so. “You’re not done yet,” he said, a little breathlessly; Thorin’s spent cock was still wet, pressed against his belly, and as Bilbo’s smile went hungry, Thorin sucked in another soft breath. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Bilbo asked, folding away used towels into a set of clean towels, “How, ah, long have you… abstained from something like this?” 

“Aspect play? I don’t often meet people strong enough to try it.” Thorin didn’t add that the people he _did_ know who were strong enough were usually business partners, and therefore it wasn’t appropriate in the least for either party. “You?”

“Not too often. It’s not fun when the Second or Third doesn’t have the strength to… push back,” Bilbo noted, his tone mild as ever, though there was a note of challenge in his voice, and his gaze flicked back down over Thorin’s cock, as though irresistibly drawn.

“We’ll see about that.”

“Hm,” Bilbo grinned, mischievous and gorgeous as he splayed his palms lightly over Thorin’s thighs. “Then I am at your service, Mister Durin.”

It wasn’t what Thorin had expected a First to say, and for a moment, he could only stare, openly puzzled, but when Bilbo’s eyes began to crinkle up with mirth, Thorin scowled. “I told you to clean up your mess,” he said flatly. “Well?”

A defensive edge crept into Thorin’s voice despite himself, and Bilbo tilted his head. “I won’t press again unless you tell me to,” he said gently, and leaned over for a languid, utterly shameless lick, from the root of Thorin’s limp cock to the tip. Thorin let out a strangled gasp, then hastily pressed his fingers into his mouth to stifle a cry as Bilbo began to lap up his come as though licking up a treat, enthusiastic and sloppy and alternating the occasional toe-curling lick with a sucking kiss at the crown of Thorin’s firming cock. 

“Fuck,” Thorin breathed disbelievingly. He was hungry for it again, for Bilbo’s mouth, for that beautifully inexorable pressure of Bilbo’s will, _anything_ ; just the thought of what Bilbo could possibly do to him had Thorin leaking gently against his belly, almost staining his rucked up shirt. Maybe Bilbo _was_ strong enough to put him through the Influence, take him under, pull him apart-

“That can’t do,” Bilbo tutted, though he pressed his tongue briefly against the leaking slit. “Does sir have a change of clothes?” 

“In the overnight bag,” Thorin’s hips twitched off the seat at the teasing squeeze that Bilbo gave to the root of his aching cock. “Fuck you, stop _teasing_.”

“Sadly, while I’m not averse to _being_ fucked,” Bilbo sidled up, bracing his weight against one blush arm rest, his gaze as inexorable as his will as he leaned close, until his lips were a hair’s breadth away from Thorin’s, “That would need rather more prep than we have the facilities for, Mister Durin.” 

The kiss was swift, hungry, and near violent in its intensity, shoving Thorin against the seat, Bilbo’s tongue pressing into his mouth with a confidence that left Thorin desperate for more, whimpering as he thrust up into Bilbo’s tight grip on his cock and scrabbled at Bilbo’s shoulders. His shirt and jacket felt far too small for him, all of a sudden, and Bilbo groaned, but didn’t move his _damned_ hand, seemingly content to kiss Thorin until he was pliant and dazed. 

“Please,” Thorin gasped, “Please-more-“

“Since you asked so nicely,” Bilbo whispered against his mouth, and when the pressure came again it was just as absolute, just as damning; Thorin came so hard that spots danced against his vision, blinking as Bilbo hastily caught the spend in a fresh hand towel. 

Breathing hard, Thorin stared as Bilbo blithely disposed of the towels, then padded back, pulling the small pile of pyjamas from where it was stowed and placing it on the sill beside Thorin’s arm. “You might want to change,” Bilbo noted, with a sly little smile.

“You haven’t yet…”

“Much as it’ll be a fine thing to take care of that with your mouth,” Bilbo leaned over for a playful peck over Thorin’s lips, “Or up that fine arse of yours,” he added, slipping a hand between Thorin’s thighs to catch a nail teasingly against the rim of Thorin’s hole, grinning as Thorin gasped and squirmed, “I _am_ at work right now, and I do have to attend to my duties.” 

“It’ll be a long flight.”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo noted, giving Thorin one last lingering once-over, then he kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Try to rest.”

There was only the smallest hint of pressure behind that suggestion, but Thorin found himself nodding in agreement and stifling a yawn. “You’re a menace,” Thorin managed, if sleepily, allowing Bilbo to help him with his shoes, then his soiled trousers and boxers, doing as little as possible to help as Bilbo tugged up the silk pyjama trousers. 

“Enjoy the flight, Mister Durin,” Bilbo replied, sounding amused again, as he stepped quietly out of the suite.

II.

Disappointingly, Thorin didn’t see Bilbo for the rest of the flight. The decidedly mediocre breakfast was served by a stewardess, a Second who blushed prettily and ducked her gaze when Thorin stared at her for a moment too long for propriety, and he later found a phone number scrawled on the napkin that came with his coffee. Thorin considered pressing the attendant button again, but he couldn’t quite think of a reason to ask for Bilbo if it was someone else who answered, and his irritation stayed with him through the rest of the flight, distracting enough that he couldn’t quite concentrate on the book that he had brought along.

At least the hellspawns in Business Class were quiet, exhausted by their squalling, perhaps. Or perhaps some kind soul had finally spiked their milk with vodka. Or strangled the lot.

It felt like an eternity before the flight was finally over, and Thorin tried not to make it seem too obvious that he was looking about for a certain cute air steward when the suite doors had to be opened. The air filtering system, thankfully, had done an exemplary job of making sure the smell of sex in his suite was already gone, but Thorin felt like he had been given a taste of a drug that was nowhere near enough: he felt hypersensitized, frustrated and alert as the plane started its descent.

He should have given Bilbo his card _earlier_. Or something. Thorin grumpily got up from his seat when the seatbelt sign pinged off, and tried not to think of the soiled clothes stuffed hastily into his overnight bag, having changed into new trousers and underwear after breakfast. 

As the other passengers started to amble towards the exit, Thorin’s heart rate picked up as he saw Bilbo’s slight form lined up beside the other stewards and stewardesses assigned to First Class, all smiling like dolls as they thanked their guests for having spent ludicrous amounts of money on air travel. Bilbo’s expression didn’t change when Thorin got close, and for an off-kilter moment, Thorin wondered if he had imagined it all along - but as Thorin frowned a little, Bilbo’s smile widened, secretive and amused, and Thorin very nearly tried to kiss him there and then, or something equally embarrassing.

Before he could regret it, Thorin fished his card out of his jacket pocket and pushed it into Bilbo’s hand, and left the plane before he could blurt out something along the lines of “Call me,” like some sort of awkward schoolboy. 

Behind him, he heard the stewardess who was a Second say enviously, “ _Again_?” but any reply Bilbo might have made was quickly swallowed up in the clamour of a commercial plane disgorging its passengers.

Having to deal with the draconian security checks, wrestle with the crowds at the baggage carousel, and finally stagger through customs meant that Thorin was in a foul mood by the time he met the company driver at Arrivals, whisked away to a string of back-to-back meetings, and as such, had quite forgotten about Bilbo when he slunk back into his hotel, wondering what had quite possessed him to build and run a multinational mining corporation.

As such, Thorin was glowering at the pathetic selection of liquor at the bar fridge when his phone rang, and he picked up without looking at the caller ID. “Yes?” Thorin demanded sharply.

“I do hope,” Bilbo drawled, “That you don’t always pick up your phone like that.”

“Oh.” Thorin blinked rapidly. “You called.”

“Well yes,” Bilbo sounded even more amused, “Unless I was only meant to email you, or just… admire your card? Gold foil on black stock, very nice.” 

Cheeky bastard. Thorin couldn’t help his grin, though, even as he sat down on the bed and ran a hand through his hair. “So. I think you mentioned something about being able to put me… under. Just so that you’re aware,” Thorin allowed a hint of challenge to creep into his voice, “No one’s managed it before.” 

Thorin smirked as he heard Bilbo’s breath catch. “Well then. Perhaps it won’t hurt for me to give it a go.” 

“I’m at the Park Hyatt.” Impatience made Thorin’s tone brisk. “Room 22-04.”

“I’ll be there.” Bilbo’s voice dropped a register, and Gods, even like this, Thorin could feel the pressure to it. “Wear something that you won’t mind me ruining, Mister Durin.” 

Bilbo hung up, and Thorin let out a shaky breath, then he pressed the heel of his hand tightly against his already thickening cock and started to toe off his shoes. Perhaps commercial air travel had _something_ to it after all.


	2. Chapter 2

III.

When the knock came at the door, Thorin was in such a rush to get it that he nearly tripped over himself. Bilbo smiled at him outside, that same sly, amused smile, and he was dressed in a pale pink collared shirt over a tight pair of charcoal jeans, his thumbs tucked into his pockets.

“I don’t actually normally do this,” Bilbo said without preamble, though he did step into the hotel room when Thorin moved aside. 

“Seduce First Class passengers?” Thorin asked dryly, as Bilbo cast a curious eye around the Presidential Suite, thumbs still tucked into his pockets.

“Hah!” There was a tension to Bilbo’s shoulders that hadn’t quite been there on the flight, and Thorin frowned at Bilbo’s back. He’d spent the last half an hour agonising over what to wear: Thorin wasn’t really one for so-called ‘casual’ clothes, and his overnight bag just had additional pairs of trousers and shirts that the hotels he stayed in would press for him. The bathrobe in the hotel seemed too… presumptuous, and Thorin had opted to wear what he had in the end, though he hadn’t threaded the cufflinks into the gray pinstripe white shirt.

“That stewardess seemed to think that this had happened before.”

“Oh, that.” Bilbo offered him a quick, wry smile over his shoulder. “It’s not what you think. I talked down a First over something or other that he was upset about last week, and he gave me his card at the end of it. Offered me a job in his company. I wasn’t interested.”

“A job?” Thorin asked, a little jealously, but thankfully Bilbo didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m not sure. He said I could make up my job description and name my salary. You do meet strange people during air travel.” Bilbo settled down on the couch, propping his hands on a knee as he crossed his legs. “Do _you_ do this often?” 

“First time,” Thorin admitted, because he had to be careful in his position, with his aspect, and although he did use to prefer the anonymity of one night stands in his youth, he had grown tired of such when he had grown older. “Usually I buy the other person a drink first.”

Bilbo smiled at Thorin, as though Thorin had said the right thing, and hungry, a little breathless, Thorin sat down on the couch beside Bilbo, sucking in a tight breath when Bilbo uncurled, straddling Thorin’s thighs, a warm and welcome weight over his lap. Like this, their height difference was less pronounced, and Thorin settled his hands on Bilbo’s hips even as Bilbo just continued to study him.

“You’re really gorgeous,” Bilbo said finally, with a soft amazement that was definitely very flattering. “I’m surprised that you’re not mated.”

“Could say the same of you.” Thorin tried to duck forward for a kiss, but Bilbo leaned back out of reach. 

“Ah, well,” Bilbo noted soberly. “When you can ping a nine on the Luin-Mithrin scale, you have to be careful if you don’t want to hurt anyone.” Bilbo smiled wryly. “And I’ve got this pesky preference for Thirds, which doesn’t help in the least.”

“A _nine_? Why are you just an air steward?” 

“I like the job. Besides, Shire Air’s fully aware of my… capabilities.” Bilbo grinned again, pressing a playful kiss on Thorin’s nose. “I’m very good at calming down ornery, privileged passengers. Besides, the world’s more modern now, and all, but most of the people I do see in First Class are still usually Firsts or Seconds.” 

Thorin nodded warily. His family hadn’t been that traditional in this respect, if only because his brother and sister hadn’t had much of a head for leadership, finance or investments. But it had been a hard slog to get to where he was now, and he was glad that his probable successors, his nephews, were both Firsts. 

“We do get a Third now and then,” Bilbo added, tilting his head. “But I usually can tell.” 

“I couldn’t tell what you were either.” 

“And that was… all right?” At Thorin’s querying frown, Bilbo added, “Sometimes people don’t like to be surprised. Especially Thirds.”

“Their loss,” Thorin said honestly, and Bilbo smirked before kissing Thorin, tentative at first, then turning into the demanding minx that he was when Thorin merely opened his mouth and clutched at Bilbo’s hips. Bilbo wasn’t pressing at all, but Thorin was still growing hard, grinding against Bilbo’s sleek body, biting out gasping moans between each bruising kiss. 

“Not yet,” Bilbo whispered, when Thorin tried to unbutton Bilbo’s shirt, punctuating his words with a nip against Thorin’s neck, then his jaw, all but crushing him against the couch with his next kiss. “Not yet,” Bilbo laughed, when Thorin growled and tried to get at Bilbo’s belt. “We’re not in a hurry.”

“ _I_ am,” Thorin disagreed, but Bilbo merely smirked at him and pinned him down and kissed him again, until Thorin was quiet, dazed, mouth kiss-swollen, and he was painfully, achingly hard. 

“Do you know about the colour code?” Bilbo asked, his tone gentle, and it was a bit of a struggle to concentrate.

“Green for… good to go, yellow to slow down, red to stop?” Thorin breathed, if doubtfully. He hadn’t quite expected Bilbo to insist on it. Most of his earlier, one-night-stand partners had been far more into trying to dominate Thorin right off the bat, to shove him down over a bed and fuck him, and Bilbo’s careful circling was somewhat disorienting.

“That’s right,” Bilbo said warmly, and Thorin averted his stare when even this mild approval started to make him pant. “I’m going to be careful, but _you’re_ going to be driving. Understand?” 

“I thought that you were going to put me under.” 

“I shouldn’t,” Bilbo carded fingers lightly through Thorin’s thick hair. “Not yet, anyway. You don’t know me.”

“But you’re tempted.”

“With someone like you?” Bilbo’s laugh was low, rough, playful, “I’m always going to be tempted.” 

“Can we take this to the bed?” Thorin asked, trying to sound imperious but probably only managing desperate, and Bilbo laughed again, and kissed him, and slipped off his lap.

“Since you’ve asked so nicely.”

IV.

Bilbo was extremely careful with prep, cleaning Thorin up in the shower, his touch deliberate, but gentle, Thorin being able to do nothing more than press his palms to the shower tiles and take it, whimpering and moaning as he was spread open with deft fingers; Gods, it had been such a while. Thorin was broad-shouldered, tall and sturdily built, something that usually put off most Firsts; but Bilbo merely hummed to himself with satisfaction and rubbed soap onto his back, soothing him, unknotting tense muscles. And Bilbo wasn’t even _pressing_ as he did it, untangling and _calming_ Thorin.

“All right?” Bilbo murmured, his voice sounding distant as Thorin’s breathing slowed further, until all he could feel was Bilbo’s palms, all he could hear the smooth cadence of Bilbo’s voice. Thorin nodded, slowly, dreamily, but Bilbo nipped lightly at his shoulder as though in rebuke. “Colour, Thorin.”

“White?” Thorin hazarded vaguely, frowning at the tiles before him, but when Bilbo sighed in mild rebuke, he kicked his mind into something semi-functional. “Green.” 

“Good.” The water turned off, and a towel was draped over his shoulders, drying him off with the same careful deliberateness. Just an hour before, Thorin would have been turned impatient, made a sharp quip, perhaps, but now he only let out a soft, gasping groan.

He didn’t remember being led to the bed, but Thorin sank down on the plush covers gratefully when a hand pushed lightly against his shoulder. Bilbo straddled him with a lazy smile, still fully clothed, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. Thorin plucked at his shirt in a silent question, but Bilbo merely smirked and said, “Later. Let’s work off some of that tension first.” 

Thorin thought that Bilbo would tease, would explore him at the same lazy pace, and blinked when Bilbo just slunk down between Thorin’s thighs instead, stroking his palms up and down Thorin’s muscular thighs, his expression openly appreciative. “I’m going to press,” Bilbo said softly. “If you’re comfortable with that. I’ll be careful.”

“I thought that was the point of all this,” Thorin said, though his words were slurred and he couldn’t quite seem to get irritated. 

“All right,” Bilbo kissed Thorin’s knee, then he smirked, the curve of his mouth sharp against Thorin’s skin. “Don’t come.” 

The pressure behind that was _absolute_ , and Thorin let out a breathless keening cry that got fingers curled into his skin, Bilbo’s lovely eyes dilating at last. Then he bent between Thorin’s thighs, and if Bilbo was deliberate before, he was rough, now, feeding Thorin’s cock into his mouth and clenching his hand over the rest, squeezing tight even as he sucked like a man dying of thirst. Pleasure _burned_ where it hadn’t before and yet Thorin felt trapped, like he was being pinned down and scoured clean, held fast and forced to drown; it was so _good_ but he was frozen on the brink, he couldn’t come-

Bilbo groaned as he let up with a swirling lick that made Thorin’s toes curl, then he started to laugh, again with that gorgeous mischief. “Good?” Bilbo asked, and squeezed tight, and Thorin whimpered and thrust up into the pressure and sank his fingers into the sheets. “I suppose that’s a ‘yes’, sweet thing.”

“Fuck you,” Thorin growled, fighting against the pressure, on instinct, and it felt like he was waking from an ill-timed sleep, groggy and hot; up until Bilbo kissed him on his temple, then his forehead, murmuring, “Shh, shh. All right. All right. I’m sorry. Be calm.” 

There was no pressure there, but Thorin calmed nonetheless, tilting his chin up for a kiss, relaxing as Bilbo nipped down to his neck, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “I forgot,” Bilbo said, the words pressed ticklish and warm against the hollow of Thorin’s neck, shockingly intimate. “You _are_ very strong.” 

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” Thorin demanded, and this got another playful smirk out of Bilbo as he hastily stripped off, then reached for the lube and the condom packet that he had left on the side table.

“Come if you must,” Bilbo pulled a pillow under Thorin’s hips, and anticipation burned as sweetly as pleasure, as Bilbo spread Thorin’s thighs wider and stroked up, fondling his balls, then his cock.

“Don’t tease,” Thorin grit out, and Bilbo huffed out a groan and pushed in, deliberate all over again, fisting Thorin’s cock roughly as he pushed all the way in, deeper and deeper until he was bent against the bed, and Bilbo was taking him, all slow, controlled thrusts that ignored Thorin’s gasps and the heel that he curled urgently against Bilbo’s back.

Then Bilbo _twisted_ and ground deep against _something_ and Thorin’s gasps bled into a helpless, openmouthed groan. “Harder,” Thorin whined, trying to push Bilbo deeper, but Bilbo just smirked and slowed down, his weight braced over the bed; orgasm took Thorin entirely by surprise, shaking through him even as he stifled his yell with the knuckles of his hand.

“We’ll work on that some other time,” Bilbo sighed, glancing at Thorin’s clenched fist, and when Thorin blinked at him, Bilbo merely smirked and started to fuck into him again; this wasn’t like sex, not what Thorin was used to - this was what it was like to be _possessed_ , to be taken care of, to be safe. Thorin relaxed, with a hushed moan, pulling his knees wider, his groans growing harsh. 

Thorin could feel the pressure building behind Bilbo’s words as he began to speak, all gentle praise, a seductive gasping litany; Thorin couldn’t quite make out the words, listening but not listening - it felt like he was gladly drowning, barely even aware as Bilbo squeezed his cock and murmured a word that he _felt_ rather than heard: release itself was almost an afterthought to the pleasure of obeying, of watching the widening smile on Bilbo’s face.

“That’s unexpected,” Bilbo said, but his words seemed adrift, warm and soothed: Thorin couldn’t quite keep track of time even if he wished. He had come himself dry by the time Bilbo seemed finally satisfied, his careful rhythm fracturing out of time, his grip jumping from the bed to Thorin’s hips, gasping and bowing his head with a hoarse, keening sound as he spent himself. 

Thorin stared at the ceiling as Bilbo moved away, distantly aware of being cleaned up, the pillow settled back higher on the bed. Then Bilbo kissed the pulse at Thorin’s neck, and higher, to his jaw, his mouth, and finally, between his eyes. “Come back,” Bilbo murmured, and Thorin sucked in a hoarse, gulping breath, blinking rapidly.

Oh.

“You slipped under all of a sudden before I could help it,” Bilbo was saying apologetically. “Are you all right?”

“M’fine,” Thorin batted irritably at Bilbo’s hands, his cheeks heating up. He hadn’t felt himself - it had been so _easy_ -

“Sorry.” 

“It felt good,” Thorin admitted, though he couldn’t quite meet Bilbo’s eyes: and it had - he felt better than he had for a long time, as though he’d just woken up from a long and luxurious sleep. 

“I’m out of practice,” Bilbo muttered, resting his chin on Thorin’s chest. “I wouldn’t have let that happen before.” 

Thorin reached out, stroking his fingers through Bilbo’s thick curls. “Then practice. With me. Again. Sometime,” he added awkwardly, when Bilbo started to grin. 

“I’m working a flight up to Canada in the morning.” 

“Or you could come and work for-“ 

“Ah-ah,” Bilbo cut in, amused, leaning up for a brushing kiss. “I said that I liked my job. But I’m usually based out of London, so if you’re ever in town, give me a ring, and we can see about another… ‘practice’ session. Sometime.” 

“I’ll like that,” Thorin said, and curled his arm around the small of Bilbo’s back.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic-intent  
> tumblr: manic_intent
> 
> Oops lol. Accidentally tagged this for violence. Shows that I shouldn't upload fics on 3 hours sleep out of a plane full of brats.


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